A Strong Fragile House
by Nautical Acronym
Summary: 'He had you,' he said. 'Trust me, kid, he was lucky.' Some references to sexuality. Substance use (tobacco).
Mrs. Knowles was frightened. Nick hadn't seen her frightened in a while. She was bent over with a hand on her gut like it could soothe her stomach, and when she coughed it wasn't much more than a dry gag. He put a hand on her shoulder.
When she started to cry, he gripped a little harder to reassure her. She dragged a hand across her eyes, and then sat back on her haunches and issued gasps and wet sniffles.  
'Don't think too hard on it, kid.'  
She said nothing, but wiped a dusty sleeve against her face. She looked westward into the middle distance and not at him.  
A few minutes passed. She got to her feet, and he reluctantly let her go. Her attention flicked around then came to him. Red-rimmed and grim, she met his gaze square and said, 'Let's go somewhere else.'  
He stared a moment at the smudge of earth across her mouth. He didn't ask where. He nodded and they left.

Rain had blown in from the distance and drenched them before they could get to a safe place to camp. Their shelter for the evening was nothing more than a shop that had been turned into a raider's base and then abandoned. They found it empty, with a mattress at the back and dirty magazines littering the floor around it.  
Nick laid his coat across the mattress.  
'Are you sure?' she asked, and he nodded, lighting up a cigarette.  
'I needed a new one anyway,' he said, then used his foot to push the tacky magazines away from them.  
She carefully laid herself out atop his coat. It struck him that in another situation, not surrounded by the leftovers of another man's excitement, he might have found the sight of her stretched against it erotic. He averted his eyes and turned to grab a chair, dragging it next to the bed against its protests. He held his pistol in his right hand, his knee with his left, and a cigarette between his lips.  
Her body was turned outward and her eyes were trained on the far wall.  
'Sweet dreams,' he said.  
She didn't say anything at all.

He pulled the remainder of the cigarette down to the filter, discarded it, and then lit another.  
Mrs. Knowles was named Dolores Katherine Knowles. It was her married name and it was _good_ , he thought. A good name. So good it had a fixed quality to it. He couldn't hack off any part of it and have it feel right. There was no awkwardness to it, no mismatched parts, like something that had been an afterthought or forced to fit. She had married a man and his name suited her.  
Nick swiped his brow with his thumb, and then settled back in his chair. Truthfully, it bothered the hell out of him.  
It had been around an hour since they'd got there. The rain had kept up. From his lookout he could see a sliver of the shopfront window. The view beyond it was bleary and smudged-out like a postwar Monet. Through the drafty doorways came the smell of petrichor and sharp ozone.  
Nick looked at Mrs. Knowles to see her asleep, but sweating. Her mouth moved soundlessly.  
Feeling it was only right, he leaned down and gripped her shoulder, gave it a shake.  
'Mrs. Knowles.' She startled a little, her dark eyes swimming up to him from unconsciousness.  
'Mr. Valentine?'  
'I normally wouldn't wake you, only… well, it looked like you could use a break.'  
She blinked a few times and pushed her unkempt hair behind her shoulder. The strands stuck out dry and brittle like a damaged broom head.  
'Do you want to talk about it?' he offered with a grim smile.  
'No,' she said, and then paused a beat. 'But can we talk?'  
He nodded, sat back again, and waited. The quiet was punctuated by the din of nature and her feet shifting over failed mattress springs. The metal coils creaked in protest. She had a serious look in her eye and she twisted her fingers.  
'Johnathan,' she started, and Nick blinked. 'Johnathan was… he never talked. I mean, about the army.'  
'Ah.'  
'I think a lot about what he never said,' she continued. 'See… John, he was sent to China during the resource wars and, well, we married once he got back, but there are some things I think… I think he couldn't say, maybe didn't know how to say. And now I feel like…' Her eyes cast about and her mouth pulled tight and closed over her teeth. She seemed to have to gather and build her voice before she could speak.  
'Like I was flippant,' she spat.  
Nick nodded and readjusted his hat. 'Well, as far as I remember, most people were. They didn't like talking about the war.'  
'No, we didn't,' she agreed. 'We talked about television or some new gadget or another. When my friends and I got together we just… complained about our mothers. We shared each other's lipstick. There was even this, this one shade and for a week I pestered Johnathan because-' She gasped and smiled miserably. 'Because I thought it was the most important thing in the world and I didn't-' She shoved the heel of her right hand into her mouth. Her agony was written in the creases of her face, scrunched together and hard with self-reproach. Her eyes were wet.  
Nick left his chair and holstered his gun in one movement. He sat beside her with the next.  
'Hey, you couldn't have known. Hell, he probably didn't want you to know.'  
'I feel like I should have, though. I should have known. He was all alone.'  
'He wasn't alone,' Nick said. He hesitated, then took her right hand with his left one. He was grateful it was his left. He brought it down between them and held it like a friend would.  
'He had you,' he said. 'Trust me, kid, he was lucky.'  
Her head turned to look at him and he glanced at her. He smiled and squeezed.  
'And I have you,' she said. His coolant pump stuttered to life. It was a sudden kick of something wonderful just beneath his chest.  
Her face was damp and her mouth looked warm. He saw again the smudge of earth against it and felt the moist heat of her breath against his chin.  
'Mrs. Knowles?'  
'Lola.' She suddenly laughed, and it was a pleasing sound, one he wouldn't mind hearing more. 'Please, Mr. Valentine, I would like it if you called me Lola.'  
'Is that what your friends call you?'  
'No.'  
 _It's mine,_ he thought, and felt like a fool for it. She couldn't mean it that way. She meant something else, as surely as the stars shone, she must, but he didn't ask.  
'Hello, Lola, I'm Nick, a pleasure to make your acquaintance,' he grinned. She laughed again, less abruptly.  
'The pleasure is mine,' she said, and pumped their clasped hands as if it were a handshake.  
He felt her hand in his hand; he felt his heart somewhere in his knees; and he felt the cold ring on her third finger as they waited for the rain to stop.

* * *

 **AN:** The title comes from the poem _My Love is Building a Building_ by E. E. Cummings. Any critique and feedback is welcome.


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